Moments
by stonerbadger
Summary: A collection of modern AU oneshots featuring L'Amis
1. Grantaire

He was a budding art student. She was his muse although he'd never let her know it. He loved the way her eyes reflected the light on a warm and sunny summers day and how she refused to walk with an umbrella when it rained. He talked to her once and her voice reminded him of a hot drink on a cold day; rich and filling and sultry. He loved how she would bite her pen or lip when she was thinking and how she had a slight obsession with coats. She was his inspiration when he painted a figure dancing in the rain or wandering through a forest like something from a time more mysterious. Like that was where she belonged, like it was welcoming her home. She was the reason his fingers lazed a blues over ivory keys; cigarette perched between his lips and whiskey in a glass on top of the piano, when he tried to make eye contact with her from across the bar where they both frequented. She was the reason he scribbled poems in lectures while the professor rambled on about the history of art; poetry that talked of beauties and stars and natures. Poetry that would be ripped out of his book and cast off the bridge on his walk home so she would never know. He had seen her walking past his lecture halls when she should be preparing for her exams- learning. But he has summarized that like the forests he painted her in she was wild and free. He didn't even know her name. She was an enigma that had taken over his thoughts and it was her hair that first got him to notice her. It was a bright and fiery red that was always in wild curls- much like his own. A Russian quote he had found had said that 'there never was a saint with red hair'. She couldn't be a saint; she was too tempting. The way her coat hugged her figure and her skirt was several inches shorter than her high school deemed appropriate. She was trouble and trouble had never been so beautiful. She would never know she was his muse, his passing whim. He was a budding art student, nothing special; living in a rundown apartment in Paris with a slight addiction to alcohol and smoking and her. But she would never know, he would never tell her. And he never did.


	2. Enjolras

He was a saint with a revolutionary's soul. Blonde hair that was down to his shoulders and his love for the colour red. There was something chaotic in his passiveness and something messy about his organization. He had a way with words like they were his lover. He had a way with words that many others had with maths or art or people. The way he spoke could give even the most desperate hope. He had eyes that gave the appearance of staring into one's very being. His face was that sculptures were made of with the same marble expression to match. He was fluent in French, Spanish, Italian, and German and often swore in them when he couldn't solve a problem or something was going wrong. He met her when he took history of art and she sat next to him doodling whatever image came to her head. His curly haired friend who sat the opposite side often looked out the window, looking for his red haired muse. He didn't have a romantic nature like the rest of those in the class, but there was something oddly intoxicating about the girl so engrossed in her drawing. He found her at a party the following night where he was horribly sober and she was surprisingly drunk. He was not an advocator of violence but when the inebriated sleaze ball had made a move he couldn't help his fist, which flew out. The man had ended up sprawled out on the floor and she was mildly unimpressed by him causing such a scene. However, she helped him patch up his bloodied and bruised knuckles and they got talking. It turned out the girl who doodled sketches all through history of art was really only taking it as a filler too. Her passion lay in healing and medicine like his lay in changing the world with his words. He had expected her to have forgotten the next morning when she walked in with dark sunglasses over her eyes, but she smiled and greeted him by name as she sat. This time when he stole a glance at her doodling she was sketching him like he was a blonde haired god. He held a flag covered in words like he was in the era of the French revolution. When hey left class she had handed it to him, folded in half and addressed to the 'saint with a revolutionary's soul'. He smiled as he looked at it properly. A spark was ignited within him and he stayed up all night with a pen in his hand and a blanket around his shoulders. He wasn't a revolutionary like she drew; he was one like Wilde and Bukowski. There was something chaotic to his fire. The Saint with the Revolutionary's Soul.


End file.
